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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29294955">Citrus Mist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tbhyourelame/pseuds/tbhyourelame'>tbhyourelame</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baseball, Brotherly Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Philosophy, References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, Short One Shot, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:34:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,066</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29294955</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tbhyourelame/pseuds/tbhyourelame</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A tradition of hiking and batting that began in boyhood has slowly disappeared under the strain of time. On their first trip back to a mountain top after years of absence, Wilbur hands Techno a gift, wrapped up with pink tape and regret.</p><p>-<br/>written for #pear300dtiys on twitter</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1239</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Citrus Mist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearOfTheStars/gifts">PearOfTheStars</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi there! this is a very short piece I wrote for <a href="https://twitter.com/PearOfTheStars/status/1353065641746395138">PearOfTheStar's DTIYS</a> on Twitter. it's not a drawing, but I loved their design of Techno with a bat, so I wanted to run with it and jotted down some ideas :) Explanations about some of the allusions mentioned will be included in the end notes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A sunrise made from darkness. Pink reds lift on the bending horizon, followed by hints of early blues. Birds in the deep leaves shudder. Pebbles tumble down the mountainside from the turning heel of a large, blood-rich boot. </p><p>A crack cuts through the biting air, echoing over the wide canyons and whispering against the thin clouds trailing behind. Techno shifts the weight on the dark teeth of his shoes again, and tips his bat back onto his shoulder. </p><p>“It swings well,” he says. The braided pink leather on the bat’s neck groans faintly under his tightening fingers. </p><p>Wilbur blows a warm breath over the cowhide ball, then tosses it before the cliff’s ledge. </p><p>The bat swings. A blur of white and gentle whiff in the air are quickly followed by another loud smack, as the ball arcs high over the forest below. </p><p>“I’ve got more rolls of grip for when those wear down.” Wilbur slings his pack off his shoulder, and rummages a half-gloved hand through it. He pulls the pink tape in his palm, and waves it at Techno lightly.</p><p>In a glance, Techno compares the twining wrap to the braided bulk of his long hair. </p><p>His coarse brows pinch together in gratitude—the closest he ever comes to smiling on their mountaintop trips. The hikes began at the edge of their youth, when the cold future was slowly seeping into their sunny-fielded days, and jovial sparring matches. Their father was receiving letters; invitations to a faraway land that wrote sorrow on his gentle features. </p><p>Wilbur requested to see them. He was denied.</p><p>Techno approached their father in late night to ask, with low tone, why he never writes back to the sender. With heavy hands, the letter was passed into his grip. </p><p>He shook Will from sleep that night, under moon and firefly wanderings. They layered on coats and tightened their boots and trekked to the nearest peak, whispering quietly. In the spur of hushed darkness, Wilbur had dragged along a wooden baseball bat for empty protection. </p><p>They laid the letter open on the stone slab before them. Silence became their oldest friend. Wilbur’s hands reached out, empty, and Techno gave him the first stone he could find. </p><p>They sent rocks into the void, until chips dented the bat’s form. Between light clacks and quick swings, they’d discussed what would become of their future. Of their brothers. Of their home. When dawn broke before them, they left the bat on the hill. </p><p>It became their meaningless secret; communicating with wordless glances midday, agreeing to share it with no one. They’d bring rocks for days when their simmering anger needed sharp release. Old baseballs were hit in the hope of something sturdy, and rooted. Oranges and eggs were for celebrations, warm smiles, fleeting moments of immortality. </p><p>Over time, they branched into different lives, and loves. Explosions, red banners, and black stone pushed into the space between them. The tense nights they shared on jagged alps grew few and far between. </p><p>“Why is this in my hands, Wilbur?” Techno voices into the still air, curling his large fingers over the metal.</p><p>A pause settles on the morning dew. </p><p>“How you, O Athenians,” Wilbur murmurs finally, with a slight grin, “have been affected by my accusers, I cannot tell."</p><p>Techno pulls the heavy end of the bat into both palms, rotating it slowly. “I see.”</p><p>
  <em> An apology. </em>
</p><p>“Was pink the right choice?” Wilbur asks. He picks up the dull, wooden bat he’d discarded on the gravel. </p><p>Techno hums. </p><p>Wilbur pitches an unravelled leather ball to himself, and hits it into the silence. “I’ve always wondered why it suits you, you know. It’s quite a soft color.” </p><p>Techno nudges the bright sleeves of his jacket up his forearms, shifting his shoulders to resettle the magenta and blues. Warmth hums in the layer between his skin and the thick fabric. </p><p>“Softness,” he says, “is an illusion.” </p><p>“How’s that?”</p><p>“Take a look at Dawn with me.” Techno sinks the tip of his bat into the soil, leaning against it slightly. Their eyes lift to the blooming sky before them. “The Greeks saw her with hands like flowers, made of color and thorns. Do you remember what we marked in father’s library?”</p><p>Wilbur tosses him a knowing smile. “Remind me.” </p><p>“They called her rosy-fingered, over and over. She’d drag her touch across the sky and leave these streaks behind.” He nods to the strips of clouds slowly filling with color on the other edge of the valley. “<em>Eos </em> was said to rise out of the sea in a chariot, and travel with the climbing sun. Leaning over the edge of her winged-seat, she’d dip her fingertips into the blue below.” </p><p>“Beautiful,” Wilbur notes. He sends a pinecone bounding down the hillside. “Yet pink still seems soft, to me.” </p><p>“It’s a sister of red.” Techno brushes the dirt off the bat, and trails a finger down the cool paint. “Pink is like blood, Will, but made of a gentler violence.”</p><p>Wilbur’s bat slowly lowers as a crack resounds through the air. It calls back to them off the faces of slanted mountains. “Gentler violence,” he repeats softly. </p><p>Techno tosses a ball, and swings.</p><p>He turns to watch as Techno adjusts his stance. “Are these a means of gentler violence, too?” Wilbur’s wooden bat sways in thoughtful loops.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>The ball collides with faraway bark, and a flutter of birds rises from the shadowed canopy. </p><p>Techno turns his heavy gaze away from the sunrise, and dumps it upon Wilbur’s studious brown. “Bats make it personal. They understand violence in its most raw form.” He inclines his bat to Wilbur’s throat, reaching across the space between them. “Think of the crack when the barrel hits the ball. The crack when the metal hits a skull. It can make music, or it can make screams.” He tugs the handle back into his palm, retracting from Wilbur’s vulnerable neck. “The voices like to hear it sing.” </p><p>Wilbur says nothing. </p><p>He studies him, then hums lightly. </p><p>From the pocket of his long, dark coat, he pulls out a firm orange. His slender fingers launch it high into the air, and his shoulders raise as the descent begins. </p><p>The corners of Techno’s scarred mouth tug upwards. </p><p>Wilbur’s bat collides with the fruit, and their years of strangled love and unspoken hurt disappear in a spray of citrus mist.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For clarity:<br/>Wilbur quotes the opening lines to Socrates’ “Apology,” written prior to his public execution in Athens.<br/>In 'The Odyssey,' the epithet “rosy-fingered” is used nearly every time Dawn is described. It’s in relation<br/>to the myth of Eos, the goddess of dawn / daughter of the Titans Hyperion and Theia.</p><p>had a lot of fun with this quick drabble, if you enjoyed this, pls consider participating in <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/PEAR300DTIYS?src=hashtag_click">#PEAR300DTIYS</a> on Twitter :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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